Hatsu
by Wusai
Summary: [AU] Killua rebels and begins a successful rock band. Life couldn't get any better - but then Kurapika's, one of the members, family is murdered, leaving him the only survivor, and the band has to cope with scandals that threaten to break them up.
1. I, the first

** HATSU**  
Wusai

**Author's Notes:** I'm wondering exactly how AU I can write a fic and still have it follow along the canon. Anyways, these parts were all written at different times, so there's style changes. Also, this first chapter might be revised later – I'm trying to get people's opinions on the fic first.

Also, please note that this is an A/U fic.

**Concerning Feedback:** I'm not well-acquainted with the characters of Killua, Kurapika, Leorio, Biscuit, Kikyou, Silva . . . - what I mean to say is, I can't quite fit into the brains of anyone who isn't Feitan and Phinx (probably because they're underdeveloped characters anyways). So, any notes and criticism of my portrayal of the characters will be greatly appreciated. Heck, criticism in general would be great. If you like something about my fic, please don't just say "I like it;" tell me why; same goes for the opposite. Thanks.

**Edit 1.0:** trim - I changed some of the things you pointed out; however, I kept the 'unpleasant room' part because, to me at least, mansions hint at being a bit too large for comfort and the like. I also didn't want to put more emphasis on what Killua was doing rather than what he was wearing. I kept the 'marigold-yellow' because just 'marigold' sounds a bit awkward to me. Thanks for pointing it out, though!

* * *

**I, THE FIRST**

In a large, towering mansion, there was a room.

It wasn't an altogether unpleasant room; on the contrary, it would make legions of boys squeal with delight if they stepped in, even if that was against their code of Boyishness and Coolness. The room was large, with shelves filled with books and toys, games and little trinkets; the closet was squeezed to the limit with the latest, most stylish clothes, and the occasional tuxedo. In one corner there was a plush sofa in a safe and reasonable distance away from the flat-screen, plasma, high-definition TV and shiny Joystation; in the other was a master bed, so soft and comfortable that one would literally sink into it if he lay in it.

But if the observer looked a little closer, he'd notice a thin layer of dust on the shelves, and the room made up too neatly for the boy of sixteen, who had rejected his lush bed and had opted for instead lying on the soft white carpet as he stared up at the ceiling, making patterns and images out of the dimples. He lay like that for a while, immobile, until a voice crackled, like someone crinkling mint wrappers, over the intercom next to his double-doors:

"Killua dear, get dressed and come down. We're going to the Nostrad's big party, remember? Sweetie, I know you're in there. Answer me with at least an 'okay.'"

He remained silent.

"Don't make me send Illumi up there, Killua . . . "

"Fine, Mum." He pushed himself up and stood before the closet, regarding the tuxedos and suits with disgust. Here he was, a sixteen-year-old boy, in a pompous and elegant world spun for old geezers from centuries past. Here was the room his mother expected him to enjoy and love – "no personal phone line; we can't have dear Killua making prank calls, though I doubt he would, but if he did, that'd ruin our reputation" – not understanding that, just once, he'd like the pleasure of a challenge in getting something.

He held the shirt sleeve of an ironed dinner jacket.

He wanted out of this delicate world of manners gilded with 'pleasant chit-chat,' this glass world that he wanted to smash with all his might.

He pulled the jacket off its coathanger and, with a delighted smile on his face, heard it fall softly to the ground with. He'd figured out a plan for a two-in-one escape, something so simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier. He changed from his 'lazy' clothes to his 'going-outdoors-skateboarding' clothes (his mother, through pursed lips, _did_ at least pay for a skateboard, which was the only thing out of his treasure hoard that he truly cherished), slipped his wallet clipped to a chain leading to his belt buckle into his back pocket, then, with his skateboard under his arm, thundered down the stairs in front of his bewildered mother.

"Killua dear, the party is in half an hour. _What_ are you doing?"

He smiled. "I'm not going."

There was a tense silence before realization dawned upon his mother's face like honey oozing down the side of a beehive, and she said the word she thought would never enter her vocabulary, but which made him grin when it fell past her lips:

"No."

He slipped on his casual shoes and repeated, "I'm not going."

"_Oh yes you are!_" she screeched. A few motes of dust danced off the ceiling and sprinkled onto Killua's mother's marigold-yellow dress. Silva came in from the other room, brushing dust off from his tuxedo.

"What's going on?"

Killua turned to him and said cheerfully, "Hiya Dad! Mum here says that I can't _not_ go to the Nostrad's party."

Silva raised a bushy eyebrow. "Why not, Kikyou?"

"After all I've_ done_ for himall I've _bought_ to _make him happy, _he won't at least return the favor_ by coming to the party? Do you realize what everyone else will think? _They'll think we have some wild child on our hands who won't even listen to his parents; what do you think that will do to our _reputation_?" She clenched her fists as color bled into her usually pale face, veins emerging and pulsing.

Both of Silva's eyebrows were raised. He said calmly, "I don't see why we can't let him miss one party."

"No!_ He's going!_ If we let him slip away once, he'll think he can do it again!"

Killua watched the match as if it were a tennis match, head swiveling from his mom to his dad and back to his mom. "Actually, Mum, I don't fancy going myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, the skating park closes at nine, and I want plenty of time to have some fun."

His mom replied in a calmer, quieter, but all the more threatening voice, "Then come to the party. You'll have plenty of fun there."

"When I'm not even old enough to drink champagne?" Killua said, astonished, covering his mouth with his hand in a mock gasp. "I'm appalled! I'll be going now, and thanks, but not thanks." He turned to leave, but his mother grabbed his arm, perfectly manicured and painted nails digging through the fabric and into his flesh. He felt a sudden surge anger bubbling up from inside. Who was this woman, thinking that she could control _his_ life and what _he_ wanted to do? He spun around, bearing down at her, then, in a spontaneous act, punched her in the gut with his free hand, with all his might. She clutched her stomach, winded; her grip slacked, and Killua pulled his arm away and opened the door. He ran out, switching to his skateboard once he'd reached the sidewalk.

"Silva," Kikyou gasped, "_did you see that?_ Why aren't you going after him? Why are you just standing there? Won't you do _something?_"

He shook his head and pulled on his dinner jacket. "There's no need."

"_What are you talking about?_ I'm going to call the bank and credit card companies right this instant and have them alert me when he withdraws money or uses his card. Or, even better, I'll block – no, _close_ – _both_ of his accounts. When that young man gets back home, he will be – _grounded!_"

She spun on her heel, but Silva grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "As I said before – there's no need. Let him go. He'll be back once he realizes that he needs us; he'll be back once he realizes that the world outside isn't the same as the bubble he lives in. Just – be – _patient_."

Kikyou glared at him, but he smirked and repeated:

"He'll be back."

* * *

_Chapter: 10/11/2004 – 11/13/2004  
Fic: 07/18/2004 –_


	2. II, a taste of freedom

**HATSU**  
Wusai

**A/N:** Updates might be a bit slow as I figure out how to link the beginning to the middle/end. Also, I don't skateboard, so I have little to no idea how to describe the tricks and all . . . The fic goes a little slowly at the beginning; Killua doesn't immediately begin a successful rock band (that's unrealistic, anyways), as with the way Killua doesn't immediately learn nen.

Also, I warn that I suffer from misplacement of humor. So . . . if humor slips in during a tense scene . . . I apologize.

Digital cookie questions:  
1. What do you call the things in the subway? Trains?  
2. Does the anime/manga ever say how old Illumi is?

**Out of Curiosity:** Does the length of a chapter matter all that much? I'm not trying to sound angry or bitter, but it seems as if long chapters make a fic automatically better . . . is this true? I mean, I myself personally prefer shorter chapters because they're easier to read, and there's more pausing points if the fic is long.

**Concerning Characterization:** Gon appears in here – he's about sixteen in this timeframe, but I want to capture his innocence and keep him in character despite his age. Did I succeed?

* * *

**II, A TASTE OF FREEDOM**

Wind ruffled through the young Zoldick's hair. Effortlessly, he jumped up, flipped his skateboard, landed on it, and carried on. Exhilaration pumped through him along with the music blaring in the background. The combination of rebellion and freedom spurned on chemical reactions of arrogance, igniting a spark that would start a fire that could never be extinguished.

The lights lining the edge of the skating area began to dim, signaling that it was almost closing time. Killua glanced at his watch – ten to nine. His mother wouldn't be back from the party until around ten – if he went home now, he'd have about an hour of free time. But did he _want_ to go home? He'd only be nagged and chided by his mother for hours upon end. Then, like a baseball slipping past the fingers of an amateur player, an idea hit him: his mother had bought a vacation home not too far from here, a home near a picturesque, secluded stretch of the beach. He checked his wallet and found forty pounds, then skateboarded out of the park and into the nearest entrance to the Underground. Pulling out a pound note, he fed it to the ticket vendor, took the ticket that it spit out, went through the turnstile, and waited impatiently at the gate corresponding to the number on his ticket. He tapped his foot impatiently, skateboard under his arm. At last, the train arrived and he hopped on after the doors slid open.

Ten stops and two transfers later, Killua found himself breathing in the fresh ocean breeze. He bounced on to his skateboard and whizzed down the street, past the cars waiting for the command of the almighty traffic light – waiting for a _light_ to control their life. Hah! What fools, Killua thought. At last he reached the ornately embellished doors that were the main entrance to the Zoldick's vacation home. He stared at the panes of stained glass for a few minutes, then swiftly pressed five of the panes in successive order, five panes so well camouflaged that one who didn't know of their existence as buttons would simply overlook them. A panel opened in the wall beside Killua, and the key to the home was presented to him on a hook. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it, threw open the door, and stepped inside.

A faintly musty smell greeted him. Motes and clouds of dust swirled around his feet, and he made his way to the windows and opened them after pulling back the curtains, allowing the breeze to push out the smell and dust. He trod upstairs and looked through each of the bare rooms, then paused at one of them to look at the single book lying on the floor. He strode over to it and picked it up: _The Idiots Guide to Hairstyling._

He paused.

Then burst into laughter.

He realized, simply by this book, the last time the Zoldicks had come to this house: probably when Killua was only about four, and Illumi was twelve or so. Illumi, at that time, was very much into hairstyle and hair care, wanting to be a hairdresser as his future career – that was, of course, until their mom – a successful lawyer, working alongside Silva, also a lawyer – almost literally smacked Illumi around the head and told him to be a doctor of some kind. Illumi had been heartbroken for a short while, withdrawing more into himself muttering about mothers crushing his hopes and dreams, but then decided to be a surgeon – more specifically, a plastic surgeon. And now, at twenty-four, he was one of the most well-known plastic surgeons, but usually only with underground groups: he specialized in face alteration, often for criminals.

A fair amount of controversy surrounded Illumi as well: many women wanted breast augmentation, and a competent surgeon to do it. The first one they'd turn to was Illumi – after all, why not? He was good-looking, didn't have big, lumbering hands like the usual male surgeon, and, well, it was a way to flash someone without getting arrested for indecent exposure . . . and most men would agree to operate.

But not Illumi.

This led to tabloids with articles on Illumi's sexuality.

But the world . . .

. . . may never know.

Killua shelved the book and flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The exhilaration and adrenaline in him began to slow down as he contemplated his situation: only one set of clothes (the few in the closet were too formal for him), thirty-nine pounds in his wallet (there was no guarantee that his parents would pay his credit card bill, after all), no idea how much he had in his bank account, mother on his tail (and he had no doubt that she'd employ the Mafia if she needed to) . . . He sighed and rolled over. He couldn't go back home, though, because it would mean Grounded Until Eternity, Or, If We Wish to Cooperate with the Law, Grounded Until You're Eighteen.

He sighed and stood, dusting himself off. This place was too confining . . . restricting . . . He went outside and walked along the beach. At a quiet part of the beach with only a couple people – most were beginning to leave – he sat on a large rock and stared past the glittering waves to the setting sun. Seagulls squawked overhead; children further along the beach laughed as they splashed water on each other, trying to squeeze in as much fun as they could before their parents called them in.

"Are you lonely?"

Killua turned and his blue eyes met with the warm brown ones of a boy about the same age as him, black hair defying gravity, long roll of paper underneath one arm. He paused, choosing his words carefully, then said:

"You could say that."

The boy sat beside Killua, shifting the paper to his lap. "My name's Gon."

". . . I'm Killua." Immediately after saying that, Killua's eyes widened – what if this boy was someone employed by his mother to create a false friendship and convince him to go home, or worse? Gon looked at him, puzzled, and said:

"Are you okay?"

Killua grimaced. "Slightly."

Gon frowned. "Are you sick? My aunt knows how to cure people better and faster than the medicine they sell in the stores because we used to live on this little island where they had to use herbs and things like that, so she knows which ones work the best. If you're sick, you could come to our house . . . I'm sure Aunt Mito won't mind."

"I'm not sick," Killua said, eyeing the roll of paper. Curiosity overcame him and he asked, "What's that?"

"This?" Gon asked, pointing to the paper. Killua nodded. "It's my architectural drafting. I'm going to be an architect . . . my dad's the best there is, but he's always away from home. I'm hoping that maybe, someday, I'll be as good as him, and I'll find him and work alongside him." He smiled. "But I've got a long way to go. What about you? What do your parents do?"

Killua paused and frowned, debating whether or not he should tell Gon. But this Gon was so warm, so friendly . . . and it wasn't as if he'd be able to figure out who he was just from his parent's occupations. As long as he didn't give out his last name, he'd be fine. "Lawyers."

Gon stared out pensively at the sun, then asked, "Both of them?"

Killua smiled. "Yes. You're an interesting guy . . . most people look at me differently and act differently, as if I'm going to tell my parents about the smallest things."

"I see." Gon looked at his watch. "I have to go now; I don't want to be late. It was really nice to meet you . . . maybe we'll meet again? I always pass by here; do you live near here?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"Okay then. Bye-bye!" Gon waved, then stood and walked off. Killua stood as well, gazing at the last rays of the sun as they disappeared over the horizon. Streetlights began to flicker on; Killua set off and walked towards the direction of the main part of the city. The night market was alive and bustling with people and vendors; lights and signs flashed everywhere. Hairs prickled at the back of his neck – he felt as if someone was watching him. He walked faster, past the nightmarket and into the winding street dubbed by the residents as Music Lane, and chanced a look behind him – and nearly choked.

His eyes met with Illumi's.

He walked as quickly as he could without jogging and bringing attention to himself, looked back, and saw Illumi, still a distance off, but rapidly squeezing through the crowd. Heart pumping, he let himself into the nearest building. He hid in the shadows and slid down to a squatting position, breathing deeply. A moment later, he looked up and realized where he was – at A Minor Stage, the one which made passerbys look at its name strangely, or, at least, those unfamiliar with music. The stage specifically allowed minor bands to play and was quite popular because admission was often free. He stood and looked around, held a breath, and sent a thanks up to whoever that was up there ruling over him that white hair was In.

He pushed himself through the crowd to the front, getting as far away from the door as he possibly could. The music blared in his ears; he gazed up at the stage and watched the musicians, focusing his attention on the bassist. He watched, entranced, as the bassist's fingers flew over the strings, producing an ethereal rumble that shook the room. Something about the song touched and calmed him, despite the fact that it was fast and loud. Something drew him to the song as he listened, mesmerized, leaning on the rail separating the stage from the floor; he stood still as the people around him bounced and jumped.

When the mosh pit began moving closer to where Killua was, he edged over and scooted to the side, close to where the bar was located. He briefly contemplated about the lack of judgement the planners had made – alcohol and rock concerts – never a good mix. He watched as the plethora of black braids on the guitarist's head glittered in the light as he fretted quickly, strumming out chord after melodious chord. The logo on the bass drum – JanKenPon – vibrated as the drummer pounded the drum.

Suddenly, from the bar, there came a shout and Killua turned to see an androgynous-looking blond punch a black-haired man in the jaw:

"Pervert!"

* * *

**A/N:** May be revised and expanded sometime. D:

_Chapter: 11/14/2004 – 11/25/2004  
Fic: 07/18/2004 –_


End file.
